This will be her third night with us after spending more than three weeks alone in her house while her man was in the hospital in his last stages. A neighbor saw that she was fed and all, but she was obviously in shock when I showed up to take her away on Friday. She came right up to me... something she'd never done before. She willingly walked right out the door without looking back. She had always been a one man dog, and I think she must have figured out her man wasn't coming home. She now follows me around the house. She's at my feet right now as I write this. Hello, old girl.
Anyway, tonight she seemed to wake up from her daze. We found her sitting in the middle of our living room, just kind of looking around with a furrowed brow... sort of the doggie version of what the heck is this place and how did I get here? I know the feeling.
As a pastor, I dive into death a lot. It is almost always someone else's family, and it is my job to keep my head to guide survivors who lose theirs. I guess I am sort of like a grief fire-jumper.
But after nearly 14 years serving the church in which I was long ago born and raised, I am, often as not, a sort of second-ring survivor myself. In these cases, it is important for me to find some way to channel my churning into some sort of constructive, reflective activity. About five years ago I found it: I plant trees.
When a death hits close to home, soon after the memorial services have been completed, my family knows they can find me out on the property somewhere with shovel, pickaxe, wheel barrow and peat moss, preparing the ground for a new arrival. The clay soil makes for tough work, which makes it all the better for my heart, soul and mind.
I focus intently on digging a pit that will not be a grave, but a cradle of life. As I experience flashes of my own mortality, I enjoy starting something that will live and strive and grow far beyond me. A complaining back, dirt under finger nails and sweat soaked clothing demand that I acknowledge the gift of living that is still mine.
It is not selfish to love and relish one's life all the more for watching someone else lose theirs. It is a rather healthy response, and probably one of the very best ways to honor the dead.
Anyway, I'm thinking of breaking with my standard solitary practice for the next tree I plant. I'm thinking I might invite this old dog along. I'm pretty sure she won't insist on empty, distracting conversation. Since she is evidence of death invited into my home, I think I might need her to share in my conversion of an ending into a new beginning. I also like the thought of her having a moment in her own fading life to rest once again in the shade of her man's shadow.
How have you processed grief? I'd love to have you share.
The best hole I ever dug (well, helped to dig) was the one for the tree I planted in memory of my dad when he died 8 years ago. Now that tree has gotten so large that it is on the list of trees to be trimmed this week when the guys come and I am taking it hard. I know I should be happy that it has grown so much, but....
ReplyDeleteI love that you plant trees to honor people Corey. I can't think of a better way to honor someone. I'm anxious to hear what other people do also as one of my best friends lost his mom last week and writing the check to her favorite charity didn't seem like enough.
I learned something about my brother that I hadn't known. I'm not surprised at the ingenuity, grace and loveliness of it. I've known him all his life.
ReplyDeleteAs for me, I shed my tears as privately and quietly as I can, except at the service, as I've found in my latest years that I am incapable of controlling my tears. I am grateful for that, actually.
I reflect on the departed's influence and impact on me and try to carry away that which they contributed- to be conscious of what part of them is now grown to be part of me.
For example: my friend Randy died five years or so ago at the age of 51 from complications from diabetes. He was an intellectual with a weirdly bent sense of humor, an infectious smile and a complex path to friendship. When I am surprised by humor in a situation that most often does not lend itself to humor, Randy's smile and laugh come to mind. When I hear a song that I know he loved or that he turned me onto, or that I turned him onto, he is still with me enjoying and appreciating that song. He often rides with me in my car, enjoying the tunes.
My paternal grandmother is always with me at family gatherings where the love flows strongest. My maternal grandmother touches me when I witness or participate in a moment of quiet gentle grace.
In my mind, no one is ever completely gone from us as we retain the parts of their personalities, characters or souls that touched us most deeply or profoundly.
Rest in Peace, cousin Ed. I'm sure you'll find your way around me time to time. And rest easy that your little dog is in the best of hands that extend from the best of hearts. Love ya, cuz.
Belated happy birthday, Bro'. And thanks for sharing.
ReplyDeleteI planted pansies when I learned of the fear that my brother in law would die of cancer. The pansies surprised me by being winter pansies and living well into the snows of winter. My brother in law did not have cancer, and lives on.
ReplyDeleteI cry every time we sing Amazing Grace not just because it's a great hymn, but because it is Grandma Tyler's hymn.
I gave away my inheritance from Great Auntie Harriet to the new Mendon library project because Auntie was a woman of many causes.
I work to just be (and breathe) with people in times of loss because of my own loss of a pregnancy in an early stage. I just didn't want to hear it would be OK. Not right away. It is, of course, OK.
My dad wants me to hire throw a party and hire a jazz dance band when he dies. Somehow this perspective resonates with me.
Great thoughts, all. I love the winter pansies!
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